


day as small as the window

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Damned be the snow, damned be the storms, damned be the plans they've made to visit Cobb for Christmas. All that matters is here.





	

"You're not going to like it, love."

Arthur looks up from the copy of the Guardian he's pilfered and raises an eyebrow. "The article here calls it 'Christmas travel misery,' " he replies. "I take it we are not exempt."

"You would be right," Eames sighs, throwing himself into the shitty airport chair next to Arthur. "There are a few hotels nearby—they're going to be circuses. We could stay with my mother—"

"But we both know how that would end," Arthur murmurs. "No, thank you." He hums, pulls out his Blackberry. "Actually, I think—yes. My contacts for us this time, Mr. Eames, if you don’t mind."

"By all means," he says, because it's true. For all that London is the place he grew up, he hates calling in his father's favors, and Arthur knows it. Best to let Arthur do his job rather than insist on some antiquated territorialism.

Arthur snaps his fingers, Moleskine in hand; Eames pulls the pen from his pocket before he's finished miming for it. Arthur scribbles and nods, talking quietly, while Eames watches the passersby, cataloguing their movements, making up their stories.

None of them, he thinks, have a life as interesting as his own. What a shame.

"I've got us someplace," Arthur murmurs to him after a moment. "It's truly obscene—you don't want to know, really, you don't, so don't look at me like that—but it's near enough, they'll call the cab, and I've stayed there before, so I'll get the miles."

Eames can't help it—he pushes at Arthur's shoulder, grinning. "We're stranded in London for god knows how long and you're thinking about the frequent flyer miles? Arthur, sometimes, really."

"Bite me," is the clipped response. And then—"not literally, Eames, we're in public, Jesus," and Eames feels like he's done his civic duty for the day.

"Well, come on, then," he says brightly, scooping up the bags. "Why stay here when I could be ruining that hotel's sheets with you?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, but when Eames turns around, the tips of his ears are pink. "The bathtub has jets," he mentions casually. It's Eames' turn to blush.

The bathtub does indeed have jets. The May Fair is a five star hotel, with suites that have names, and Eames cackles gleefully as he tosses the bag down in the Amber Suite's living room. "You've pulled out all the stops, haven't you?" he coos, making a full circle around the room before crossing back to stand in front of Arthur.

Arthur shrugs. "No reason to be uncomfortable. We have no real way of knowing how long we'll be stuck here."

"Ah, of course," Eames replies. "So it's out of convenience you've picked the posh honeymoon suite. My mistake."

"It's not the _honeymoon_ suite, fuck you," Arthur mutters, but Eames is already darting in, catching Arthur's mouth, one hand on his face and the other on his hip, palm curling in. "Bastard," Arthur mouths, only for Eames to swallow it, pressing further, holding tighter.

Arthur sighs into his mouth, finally, hands coming up, fingers tight in Eames' shirt. "Much better," Eames hums. "Come on, I bet there are mints on the pillows."

He starts in on Arthur's shirt—no tie since about noon, hour four of the flight delay debacle—and walks backwards through the suite, headed for the bedroom.

"I'll never understand how you do that," Arthur tells him, his own fingers on Eames' buttons. "How do you know you won't run into a wall or a doorframe or the coffee table?"

Eames grins. "Would you really let me do that, darling?"

"If you deserved it," Arthur snorts.

Eames pulls him back in by his lapels, their mouths millimeters apart. "And do I deserve it, do you think?"

Arthur looks at Eames' mouth, leaning in ever so slightly before pulling back. "Not today, I suppose. No, you've behaved quite well, today." He pushes Eames backwards. "Keep going."

Eames obliges. "Look, there really are mints—" but Arthur has his hands on Eames' waistband and is reaching into his flies, and mints suddenly seem a lot less important.

"You can stop talking anytime," Arthur says silkily. Eames makes a truly undignified noise, hardening in Arthur's hand as Arthur continues to stare at his mouth. "Better," he murmurs, pressing forward, questing for a kiss. Eames obliges, shutting his eyes and opening his mouth.

Arthur strokes up once, twisting his wrist, and Eames makes another unintelligible sound. He can feel Arthur's triumphant smile—another successful application of the knowledge he's catalogued in scores—and leans in, his own hands resuming their task with increasing urgency even as Arthur slows, teasing. The clink of Arthur's buckle, the zip of his flies, the warm, round skin of his arse—Eames does his own cataloguing, tucking away each sensory memory as if this is the first and last time.

Arthur withdraws, shucks the rest of his clothes. Eames snaps to attention, stepping out of pants and trousers, sensing the zero to sixty acceleration from leisurely to desperate. And they're naked, and Arthur's pushing, and Eames is falling, landing on the luxuriant duvet, mints flying into the air.

Arthur sweeps them off the pillows and onto the floor—"I am not waking up with chocolate on my face, Eames—" and bullies a knee between Eames' legs, sucking a bruise into the curve of Eames' shoulder.

"Pity," Eames pants into his ear. "Would have loved to take care of it for you."

Arthur pulls back only long enough to scowl before shutting him up, licking into his mouth, sweeping through, familiar, learned. Eames hums into it, running his fingers along Arthur's spine, beating out a tattoo before skittering across, down Arthur's bicep, between their bodies. He knows these places, every inch of Arthur's skin, warm and soft, all the places Arthur hides away, reveals only to Eames. He knows them better than his own body, sometimes.

"Jesus," Arthur grinds out when Eames wraps a hand around both their cocks, hips thrusting upward. Eames grins into it, grins for the feeling and for Arthur and for all of Arthur's hard-won sounds, every one an admission of what will never need to be said. Eames tugs, throwing his head back—Arthur descends, biting at his jaw. This is it, this is all—this is everything and more, the world narrowing to the places they touch. Damned be the snow, damned be the storms, damned be the plans they've made to visit Cobb for Christmas. All that matters is here.

Arthur growls something that sounds suspiciously like "damn right" and brings his own hand down to tangle with Eames', rutting into their entwined fingers, and Eames considers the possibility he may have said this last out loud. But Arthur's gasping and his hips are stuttering and Eames opens his eyes for it, opens his eyes because Arthur is falling apart, shaking and sweating and sliding in and out of their hands and Eames made this happen, _Eames_ brought him to this, and no matter how many times it happens, that knowledge will never be anything but earth-shattering. And Arthur's coming, biting his lip and looking down at Eames and Eames has been looking up into that face for _years_ and it still makes him see white when he comes, arching up and into it, chest colliding with Arthur's as he cries out, hollering Arthur's name so loudly he bloody well _hopes_ the neighbors can hear it, so loudly his own ears are ringing as he comes down, Arthur sticky and sated atop him.

"You're unbelievable," Arthur mumbles into his skin, tracing the lines of Stravinsky tattooed on his arm. "An embarrassment. I can't believe I do anything with you in public."

It's because you love me, Eames thinks, but it doesn't need to be said. "It's because I'm entertaining and I give truly spectacular head," he says instead.

Arthur whuffles something that might be acquiescence, already coasting towards sleep. Eames nudges him over, rolls him onto his back, presses a kiss to his slackening mouth before darting into the bathroom for a warm, damp cloth. He pitches it back towards the bathroom and crawls under the covers when he' done, tucking Arthur snugly into his body, aligning them both into the places they fit and turning out the lights.

"Goodnight, Mr. Arthur," he whispers into Arthur's hair.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames," Arthur mumbles.

Eames grins. Heathrow can be closed forever, for all he cares.


End file.
